After The Rain

For The Sunday Muse Prompt #83. Image “After The Rain” by Cyril Rolando

***
I tremble
at the echo of
the booming thunder,
the resounding
of its clap like
the roar of a lion
stirred, a brilliance
incandescent in its majesty
as it splits the night sky
like a warm knife
shears butter.

I have shivered
in the embrace
of a light rain
its fluid fingers,
by persistence finding
their way through
my garments till
they meet my
bare skin.

Where streams
once wrestled
against the heat,
against the dust,
the wind and the
thirsty earth,
a raging river
now reigns.
After the rain
comes surrender,
new life and
breathing again.

Yellow Dream

For The Sunday Muse Prompt #75. Image Source.

***
A yellow orb,tethered
to the earth by slender strings
descends, its yellow light
a hue cast over this dream
in which I find myself looking
at my selves; the past and the future
holding the hands of the present,
tiny figures scurrying up
ladders which seem to reach
for the sky, reinventing
what is seen. Darkness lingers
in the corners of this vista
but stroke by stroke
pixel by pixel, the dream
and reality are slowly
melding into one.

Garden Spot

 

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For The Sunday Wednesday Muse Prompt, Garden Spot. Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash. A nod to the still vivid memories I have of being dragged off to our family farm by my parents in those dire, dark SAP days.

**
First comes the rain,
and then the wakened worms which turn the
hard, sun-baked soil into compliant mulch.
Grain by grain, leaf by leaf
the beauty of Symbiosis begins
to rear its head, the cycle of death
begetting life and sustenance for the things
we must ingest, for which with backs bent
beneath the blazing sun we labour;
the reward of another day survived eked out
from the hard, earth.

NaPoWriMo Day 2: Morning

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For the Day 2 prompt, a poem about questions.

***
What is this which zips
around my ears, its sound
like the deep hum of an old man
hunched down, stirring up the sand.
It shimmers in the morning light
its back a splash of gold splayed
across the sky, against which stand
the silhouettes of great metal tubes
bending to its will. What is this
but the wind, which goes wherever
it wills.

#48. Rememory

 

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Photo by Skitterphoto from Pexels, for The Sunday Muse Prompt #48.

***
Maybe it was the slant
of the light streaming in,
slicing through, as it were,
the haze of yester-year’s detritus;
the half-drawn blind like a mind
stretched thin between leaving
and returning, a face half-turned
towards the memory of lost songs
hovering just beyond the reach
of a quivering tongue, and this
present brooding.
Maybe this is what the
burden of life is. To carry,
buried deep within one’s heart,
the remains of the songs
of one’s youth; until
in a season of re-memory,
they all come back.